


Stranger Still

by FictionPenned



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Anonymity, Anonymity - We met at a masquerade and danced all night but I still don't know your identity, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/F, First Meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29723199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: The woman extends a hand in Eloise's direction, a gesture that manages to effortless straddle the gaping chasm that lies between casual actions and utterly magnificent ones. "Would you care to dance with me?"
Relationships: Eloise Bridgerton/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Proximity Flash





	Stranger Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonster/gifts).



The ball is noisy and near-overwhelming in its spectacle. 

Eloise has never attended a masquerade before. Frankly, she doesn't see the point in hosting an event like this. Every party of the season has nigh identical guest lists, so surely it follows that the only people in attendance are the same people she sees night after night and day after day, yet everyone else seems to treat the act of throwing on a mask as if it creates some sort of spectacular air of mystery and turns everyone into a complete and utter strangers. 

Eloise has higher standards insofar as mysteries go. After all, she has been trying to discover the identity of Lady Whistledown for well over a year now, and it is quite infuriating that for all her investigative efforts, she has not yet stumbled across the answer. Even if she is not a proper investigator, Eloise is clever and observant and dedicated to her pursuit, and so far as she sees it, there is no reason why she should not have been able to unmask the writer by now. 

And rhe masquerade, so far as Eloise is concerned, is just another inconvenient obstacle that the universe has thrown in her path. After all, it is infinitely harder to scrutinize the activities of the ball's many attendees when it takes a second or third glance to identify any of them. 

Besides, her mask itches most fiercely. 

Eloise scrunches up one side of her face and slips a finger between the accessory and her cheek, desperately trying to let her skin breathe for a moment. 

It is truly amazing how quickly even something as delicate as lace can become oppressive, though if Eloise is completely honest with herself, she _often_ finds the trappings of feminity oppressive. 

Eloise is busy scanning the room when a rush of spiced floral air washes over her -- a smell more intoxicating than any that has ever before assaulted her senses. She turns at once, half expecting to find herself face to face with someone wielding a particularly innovative brand of smelling salts, but instead, she finds herself suddenly pulled into the orbit of a masked woman. 

Her skin glows beneath the glittering lights of the chandelier, warm and brown and lovely, and beneath the black of her mask, her eyes are sharp and alert. 

Eloise has been fairly good at guessing the identities of every person here, but in this moment with this person, she finds herself completely at a loss. 

Perhaps the wine has finally gone to her head. 

Or, perhaps, this woman is a true stranger, however unlikely that might seem, given how insulated the ton tends to be. 

It takes Eloise a moment to untangle the wandering threads of her thoughts and unstick her flustered tongue from the roof of her mouth. "I am terribly sorry, have we been acquainted?" To her newly piqued senses, her voice seems higher than it usually is, and an embarrassed flush creeps up the back of her neck. 

She long thought herself immune to the intoxicated ng charms of infatuation to which her siblings so often fall prey. It is both irritating and enormously humbling to be proven wrong. 

The masked woman's painted lips quirk. "Answering the question would ruin the endless delights of an evening such as this, would it not?" 

Her voice is smooth and silky, and Eloise gulps at the sound, suddenly and inexplicably breathless. 

"I suppose so." 

The woman extends a hand in Eloise's direction, a gesture that manages to effortless straddle the gaping chasm that lies between casual actions and utterly magnificent ones. "Would you care to dance with me?" 

Normally, Eloise would flounder, bandying about nervous gestures and wringing sweat from her palms as she blathers on about not being much of a dancer. Tonight, however, in the face of this gorgeous stranger, she finds herself almost involuntarily stepping forward, placing her hand in the woman's own. She wants to be near her, wants to touch and be touched by her, wants to lose herself in the sight and smell and sound of her. 

She wants nothing more than to exist in her presence, like a tiny moon content to be dragged around in circles day in and day out at the petty whims of physics and gravity. 

"I would be honored, my lady." 

As soon as their hands meet, the world falls away beneath Eloise's feet. She loses all sense of time and self. The room is no longer overwhelming. Instead, it has been reduced to two points -- herself, and this beautiful stranger. 

It is only in the morning, when they have danced their feet bloody and parted ways with a chaste kiss and murmered praise that Eloise realizes that she never caught the woman's name. 

Thus, it would seem, most unexpectedly, as though Eloise has another mystery to solve.

With a pinch of effort and a bit of good fortune, perhaps this investigation will be a smidgeon easier than the other. 


End file.
